


No Regrets

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angst with a Happy Ending, Did I seriously just write that ending?, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hospitals, I did not just write that ending, John Loves Sherlock, John Watson is an Intensivist, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sherlock Loves John, Sometimes bad shit happens in hospitals, acute respiratory distress syndrome, platinum - Freeform, pulmonary embolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, MD, works as an Intensivist at the hospital.  He arrives home one evening after a very unsatisfying and trying patient encounter, upset.  And Sherlock is there to listen.  And, well, to be <i>Sherlock.</i>  Losing a patient is just never easy, and John is not immune.</p><p>++</p><p> "I should offer you something to eat?”</p><p>“Not hungry, but thanks anyway.”</p><p>“Backrub then?”</p><p>“Who are you?  And what have you done with my flatmate?”</p><p>“Shut up.  We can skip the backrub and go right to sex, then?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of Dr. Watson's Flatmate series, but would stand well enough on its own. John is the lead Intensivist at the hospital, and is a "take charge" type of guy, who has met, moved in with, and cultivated a sassy relationship with consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. This particular chapter explores Dr. Watson dealing with some of the harder things about working in the medical field - the loss of a patient.

John arrived at the door of 221B mechanically, the walk home the same streets and kerbs, the overcast misty weather without fail, the streetlamps glowing softly, a chill in the dampness.  It was the same as ever, and yet it wasn’t.  John would plod up the steps, Sherlock would (more than likely) meet him at the door.  Sometimes it was a distraction for having ruined something, or to make up for the penchant for getting into trouble - but be it restlessness, sentiment - it didn’t matter.  Today, he was looking forward to the traditional meeting at the door, the sign and symbol that everything was okay, a ritual of comfort.  John needed the reminder that normalcy could continue, that truly, despite the cliche, life did go on. 

And so when Sherlock didn’t greet him, John quickly scanned the flat to find Sherlock facing the wall, the one he considered his personal bulletin board, one that had been vandalised and shot three times in an act of unforgivable boredom (long discussion there, ending in pouting, sulking, anger, and then makeup sex - John could only be so angry for so long, after all).  In front of him was a collage of papers, and Sherlock, wearing a blindfold, was poised with a dart.

“Might want to stay where you are!” Sherlock advised.

“Hmm, good idea,” John noted, eyeing possible trajectories and heeding the warning.  “Find a new way to solve crimes today?”  

“Might as well.  This one is bloody unsolvable.”  Frustrated, he let the dart fly, and it missed all the hanging papers, landed at the intersecting space between three tags.

“Sorry to hear,” John said, feeling a bit safer moving from the door now that Sherlock was unarmed.  He hung his jacket, set his pack down, removed empty coffee mug, and eased into his chair.  Eyes forward, he watched as Sherlock, removing the blindfold, turned to face him.  There was puzzled concern on Sherlock’s face as he studied John with intensity.

“ _What.  Happened_?”  Each whispered word strung out on its own, an acknowledgement of something, a negative, a trauma, a hurt carried in on John’s broad shoulders and brought unwelcome and unwanted and likely undeserved into this flat, this haven from the world.  This place where two men found something unusual and wonderful and full of life.  Sherlock could already feel the bristling intrusiveness, and hated it already.

John could only swallow hard, silent, his eyes rising to meet Sherlock’s.  No words came forth, and John knew the sharp pain that had been slightly suppressed during the day as he’d worn his physician role, met needs, assisted others, did what he had to, the aching now reached out, was right there on his face.  John could feel it in the set of his own eyes, the crinkle of his brow, the tightening around his jaw, the pain at both temples, God, even his bloody hair hurt.  None of this hidden from Sherlock, and he wasn’t trying on any account.  There were no words, not possible and not needed, not yet, and Sherlock crossed the room, concerned, sat on the edge of the coffee table at John’s knees, and reached out long arms to gather him into his chest, hardness meeting strength meeting the unified bond they shared.  A moment’s hesitation hung there, tight, coiling, oppressive - until Sherlock felt John’s shoulders tremble just once, his breath stuttering, and John’s arms then came up around Sherlock’s waist, circling, holding, growing slightly tighter.

And there they stayed.  Long, long minutes.

++

Days previously, John had received a typical phone call from the A&E physician, advising him of an admission, male, age 34, with pneumonia, trying NIPPV now, pH 7.08.

John had been in the ICU, relayed the information to the charge nurse.  He rose, things more settled there and nothing burning too brightly that couldn’t wait, and told them he was going to see about the patient, intending to admit quickly if needed.  “If we’re going to intubate, I’d rather do it here than downstairs.”

The RN who would be receiving the patient nodded, shrugged, “Anytime, he’ll be mine.”  And she rose to set up the room while John strode purposefully away.

The sight in the A&E was familiar except for the age of the patient and the family at the bedside.  Very young for such severe pneumonia, Jack was, and his wife, Leslie, holding his hand, very pregnant.  If not for the respiratory distress, John would have taken his time getting introductions out of the way, but the patient was looking too unstable for that.  He introduced himself, addressed the patient, performed a targeted assessment.  The history had already been obtained by the doc on duty there, and John excused himself to view the chest xray, write admission orders, and facilitate a smooth yet expedient admission to the ICU.

Transport to the ICU was always tenuous on NIPPV, and John accompanied, talking with the patient’s wife, explaining the process, the expectations, and rationale for treatment.  Frightened and overwhelmed, she heard very little of what he said, he knew.  

++

Sherlock was dabbling in mostly unknown territory.  He knew it was  _very_  unusual for John to bring work baggage home at all, let alone to come home upset.  Deducing John was seldom straight-forward, as he was complicated, often perhaps not always a step ahead, but a few steps laterally as well.  What made this even more unusual was that John was very good at keeping things compartmentalised - his work stayed at work, his role as physician secure and confident, his actions evidence-based and sound.  The soldier history, Sherlock knew, also self-assured - a leader, giving orders, supporting his unit, making appropriate decisions with military discipline.  And the side of John reserved for Baker Street?  Fun, energetic, sassy.  Usually.

A loss, then, obviously.  Unexpected death, probably.  But something about it hit close to home.

Time to think, Sherlock told himself as he realised John’s vulnerability,  _outside the box_.  John was a man of action, so Sherlock considered giving him, at the very least, something just to occupy his mind and body.  He stood, took John’s hand, and led him down the hall toward the bathroom.  John turned questioning eyes toward him as Sherlock turned on the shower.  “Have a wash,” he directed.  “You’ll feel better.”

John looked ready to protest, but Sherlock gave him no room to dissent.  When Sherlock’s hands began working on John’s shirt buttons, John swatted them away gently, “I think I can manage.”  Sherlock dropped his long fingers to John’s belt, then, unbuckling it until John glared, intolerant and stalwart.   He bade a hasty retreat from the don’t-mess-with-me expression.

“Guess you don’t want company.”

“Pretty sure I got this,” John offered, but then their eyes connected and, before Sherlock exited the room, there was a grateful exchange of mutual support.

++

“But if you put down the breathing tube, are you sure he’ll be able to get off the ventilator eventually?”

John saw the upset on Leslie’s face, the brokenness, the fear.  Making a decision was terrible, he knew, and sympathised even, but it had to be done.  And quickly.  “I’m sorry to put it this way, but without the breathing tube, he may not survive.” 

One of the nurses was at her elbow, just in case, and Leslie was stunned, glancing fiercely at the form of her husband, laying in the bed, working to breathe, his eyes glassy as his body fatigued.  “Whatever it takes, of course, then.”

The nurse put her arm around the heartbroken form.  “We’ll send someone out as soon as we can.  We’ll take good care of him.”

John followed the RSI protocols, sedating, paralysing, and intubating in short order without incident.  Jack had already been placed on a continuous lateral rotation mattress, the nurses planning for optimising oxygenation and perfusion as much as possible.  It was a speciality mattress that would rotate, percuss, and vibrate in order to maximally supply blood flow to lungs, kidneys, vital organs.  John also initiated standard protocols which allowed Jack to be sedated with a continuous propofol infusion, restrained if needed to prevent self-extubation, with daily chest xrays and other necessities unique to the ICU.

He entered orders electronically, verified the post intubation chest xray, and paused in the doorway to assure stability.  Jack’s color was already better, and he was chemically relaxed, work of breathing now completely artificially supported.  He spoke to the primary nurse, offering to bring Leslie back to the bedside if they were ready.  When she agreed, John found Leslie in the waiting room, head leaned back against the wall, arms protectively around a very gravid belly.

“Do you want to come in now?”

“Is he ok?”

John nodded, smiling as reassuringly as appropriate.  “His oxygenation is better, and he’s not in distress now.  Sedated and resting.”  Leslie rose quickly as John held open the door to the ICU.  He steadied her with a hand to the middle of her back, explaining the tubes she would see and describing the need for him to rest now, interact little, and allow his lungs to heal as antibiotics treated the underlying pneumonia.  John introduced the nurse to Leslie, and slid out a chair next to Jack’s bed.  She eased into it, staring with wide eyes at the unfamiliarly familiar face in the bed.  Her hand took the patient’s hand, unmoving, restrained, and her fingers shook a bit as they clung.

++

Sherlock held up a towel for John, waited as he stepped into it.  There was no exchange of useless words, no platitudes, no meaningless reassurances, no falsehoods.  Sherlock knew there was really nothing further that could be said at this time, that John knew the truth, that he had likely dealt with this - whatever it was - before and would deal with it again on his own terms and schedule.

Leading the way into the bedroom, Sherlock gently nudged John onto the bed, silently, then left the room.  He returned with two tumblers of the scotch reserved for those special occasions - they hardly drank much, other than tea - and this counted, in his opinion.  He’d grabbed a candlestick off the mantel, matches, as well, and found John laying down, eyes open, far away somewhere in his mind.  He cleared his throat, struck the match, turned out the lamp.  The candles threw soft lighting around, casting shadows and dimming the harshness of the room.  He handed John the drink, then stripped off his own clothes and joined John on the bed.

Leaning up on an elbow, Sherlock leaned over, touched his glass with John’s with a sharp clack, loud in the peace of the room, and said slowly and quietly, “To whom are we drinking?”

It was then that John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, the sadness and pain and futility evident and deep and terribly hurtful.  “To us, of course,” John said, briefly considering maintaining the facade that Sherlock had already not only seen through but demolished.  His eyes looked over then, meeting Sherlock’s disappointed yet inquisitive scrutiny.  They were both painfully aware of John’s omission, so he added, “And Jack.”  

John might have said more, and Sherlock might have pressed, but neither felt the urging.  John knew Sherlock was aware, and Sherlock knew John would say more when the time was right.  For now, they danced around the edges of togetherness, sipped at the tumblers, the heat of the scotch burning the throat and numbing the brain in small, relaxed increments.  When the glasses were empty, their hand sought comfort in the touch of the other’s hand, casually at first and then holding tight, John knowing none of them were guaranteed tomorrow, that life can turn on a dime.  And for a time, that was enough.

John set both his glass and Sherlock’s on the floor before finally feeling the urge to speak further.  He turned toward him, reaching out, his hand finding Sherlock’s slightly stubbled jaw, holding and touching it firmly before relaxing away again.

“No regrets,” John said, almost to himself.  There was a solemnity in his tone that was unique enough to make Sherlock narrow his eyes in concentration.  “Will it frighten you off if I were to say something to you that I haven’t said before?”

The hushed words hung as John watched a few fleeting movements cross Sherlock’s face as he processed what John was intimating, and asking.  Pale eyes looked back at him, understanding, knowing, acclimating to what John was about to do.

“Of course it won’t frighten me off,” Sherlock said lightly, in essence, giving permission.  “It would take the threat of much worse than that.”  To his credit, John noted, he maintained eye contact although it might have been mildly uncomfortable.  For both of them, he acknowledged to himself, although he himself was assured of his own thoughts.  “Frightening would be Mycroft in a speedo, that would do it irreversibly.  And, if the goal is to chase me away, for all of that, you’re a physician, I’m sure if you needed to dispose of me, there are plenty of means in your arsenal, virtually undetectable.”

“Could say the same for you, Mr. PhD in Chemistry, and you know that isn’t what I mean.”  John smirked a bit then, looked away, leaned back against the headboard.  “You matter so much to me.  I can’t imagine ...”  He let the sentence dangle, his voice sounding thick in his ears, feeling as if he were walking thin ice, treading water carefully, trying to avoid stepping on a landmine or lighting a fuse and hoping against explosion.

Sherlock held steady, his bent knee touching the outside of John’s leg as they sat there.  “Am I _that_ scary?”  A smile threatened to burst on Sherlock’s face as the tension mounted just a bit and he effectually poked at the sleeping dog.  “You can’t do it, can you?”

“Wanker,” John muttered, the smallest grin playing at one corner of his mouth.

“Yes, but you love me anyway,” Sherlock said, taking the proverbial bull by the horns.  He looked John squarely in the eye, almost aggressively daring him to deny it.  “Don’t you?”  His challenge was typical, headlong into danger, pushing buttons and never backing away from a confrontation.

The lump in John’s throat grew large as he worked a swallow around it.  “Yes,” he said, returning the steady eye contact and recalling the heartbreaking scene from earlier in the day.  He refused to allow an opportunity to pass by like this, reminded himself of the many brave moments in Afghanistan and since.  “Love you.”

The words had never actually been uttered aloud before, but certainly the concept and sentiment had been spoken in a thousand ways, sexual and otherwise, so Sherlock was not shocked by the verbalization.  But today, for John, it was just necessary, speaking those little words.  

 _No regrets_.

++

The following day was full of activity clusters, where Jack had a PICC line placed, as well as a small bore feeding tube, and, unfortunately, needed his inspired oxygen levels increased to compensate for his stiffening and leaking lungs.  The chest xray showed patchy whiteout on both sides, bilateral pneumonia superimposed over ARDS, acute respiratory distress syndrome.  John spoke several times throughout the day with Leslie regarding Jack’s condition.  Their baby, their first, was due in a few weeks, and she was just focused on talking with him again.  They hadn’t settled on a name.  She wanted to tell him she loved him ‘just one more time’, she kept saying, in near tears, to John.

The intensivist who relieved John that day hadn’t met either Jack or Leslie before, and they typically rounded together on the more critical patients in the ICU.  Leslie seemed agitated when introductions were made.

“Why isn’t the ventilator helping?  He’s getting oxygen, right?”

John took in the scene, chatted quietly with his partner, including Leslie on the purpose of their visit.  “Let’s talk in the consultation room, so we don’t disturb him, ok?” John offered gently, and led Leslie down to the room while his relief stayed behind.  “So the problem is that where air is exchanged in his lungs, the alveoli capillary membrane, is, for lack of a better word, swollen.  There’s fluid there, so the gases in the blood don’t actually reach the oxygen and air delivered through the ventilator into his lungs.  They don’t touch.”  John waited for her to nod slowly.  “Getting rid of the fluid and debris there is tricky and difficult.  The inflammation mostly just has to run it’s course.  He’s got pneumonia on top of that, too, so there’s bacteria and white blood cells and mucous in the way, too.”

Leslie didn’t look convinced.  “They said the oxygen is as high as it can go, 100%.”

John nodded, trying to be kind.  “And we’ve turned up the remaining residual pressure at the end of each breath, too.  We call it PEEP, it holds open the alveoli.”  She was nodding, having had a bit of a crash course in pulmonary anatomy over the last few days.  “We are doing everything we can to support him while he tries to fight this off.  Nutrition, antibiotics, ventilator therapies,” and John did not delve into the different ventilator settings they had already tried and would try if Jack’s lungs grew less compliant, “are all on board.”

“Dr. Watson,” she said, then, quietly, in a fearfully defeated voice.

“John.”

"John,” she repeated dutifully, quietly, “Is he going to survive this?”

There was a charged moment then, in the hesitation, and Leslie raised tear-filled eyes to look trustingly at him.  In the past, John had perhaps spoken what he was hoping for or what the family needed to hear in the moment in order not to abandon all hope.  This time, though, he could only be honest.  “I’m not sure.”

++

Sherlock leaned back onto a pillow, watching John’s degree of relaxation while the candles flickered and kept the lighting in the room changing.  

“So, now that I’ve given you alcohol on an empty stomach, I guess I should offer you something to eat?”  Sherlock sounded almost contrite.  “We could get something delivered.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die, is that what you’re saying?”

“Not at all.  Just looking to take care of you for a change.”

“Not hungry, but thanks anyway.”

“Backrub then?”

“Who are you?  And what have you done with my flatmate?”

“Shut up.  We can skip the backrub and go right to sex, then?”  When Sherlock’s hand rose, reaching for John’s hip, John intervened, catching it mid-air, holding it in cool fingers.

“Not yet.”

++

Jack continued to hover for a few days between being too sick to make progress and then hinting at recovery but showing very minimal signs of improvement.  His oxygen requirements stayed high, he demonstrated agitation and hypoxia each day when the nurses assessed him for weaning readiness, and his nutrition support continued.  For a few minutes every day, Leslie was able to communicate with him, most often through tears - his as well as hers - until both the physical and emotional stress led to agitation and Jack’s plummeting oxygen saturations.  The sedation was titrated back up, and Jack was encouraged to rest in order to heal his body.

On John’s day off, the weaning protocols allowed him to remain on the weaning trial for almost 8 hours, and the following morning, John, along with the team of the respiratory therapist and ICU nurse, made the rather gutsy decision to extubate.  Once the tube was out, Jack continued to breathe easily, and looked a bit better.  John rounded again a few hours later, to visit with he and Leslie.  His voice was hoarse, but they were both smiling, and grateful.  Jack’s biggest complaint was the block of days that were just simply “missing” from his memory.  Fortunately, he did not exhibit the propofol “hangover” that some patients seemed prone to, the confusion, delirium, or agitation.  Jack was making such progress, that by the end of John’s shift, the patient was out of bed, taking a few ice chips, and using his incentive spirometer hourly as directed, in order to mobilize secretions and for alveolar recruitment.

Leslie was all grins, spent the day at the bedside, talking with Jack and allowing him periods to sleep, to rest, to listen.  She had scooted a chair alongside the bed, resting her cheek against his arm.  One of the nurses had pointed that out to John as he re-rounded prior to leaving the building, and when John stood watching the tender moment from the doorway, Leslie must have sensed his presence.  One eye opened, and as John watched, he could see her hand slide along Jack’s fingers, tears slipping the short run down her cheek and onto the sheet.  They were truly tears of relief, of pent-up emotion, and of therapeutic value.

John was encouraged, and began to think possibly, that maybe in a few days, after working with rehab services, that they might have discussions of sending him home.

++

Sherlock adjusted the pillow under his shoulder.  “So, Jack?”  Sherlock stated the question, seeing an opening, forcing his way through, no holds barred, with all the tenderness of a hungry lion devouring an unsuspecting gazelle.  John was ready for him, however, knowing the conversation was going to get there and not likely to be gentle.  “You went into medicine knowing you weren’t going to save them all.”

“Understood,” John said, patiently, knowing Sherlock’s concrete thought processes didn’t always allow for the empathy that came so easily, sometimes second nature, to John.  “That doesn’t make the loss of  _this one_  any easier.”

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry that it’s bothering you.”  John had certainly lost patients, many of them, and had, on occasion, shared a few of their stories - their endings, yes, but sometimes the interesting pieces of the lives of some of the patients.  Occasionally since they’d been together, there had been a few the John felt more of a connection to, and, like this one, Sherlock knew it would pass.  He continued, wanting to remind John of the big picture.  “Look around you, not even just at this one patient, it’s just a fact:  bad shit happens.”  He listed examples, then, natural disasters, athletes who collapse, plane crashes, murder and mayhem (and John thought he looked a bit too enthusiastic about that, but wisely held his tongue).   He reminded John, unnecessarily, because John never could really turn off his motivation and passion for medicine, of the  _successes_.  Of the patients he’d treated, who survived, that he still made a difference, was saving lives but sometimes medicine still failed.  “And you can’t change that fact.”

“Nothing I haven’t reminded myself today, I know.  I know it.  And I’m fine, truly.”  Shaking his head, knowing there was time for everyone in medicine to confront this issue of death, too often, he said quietly, “It sucks sometimes.”  

“So I had just gone back to my office after morning rounds when the overhead code was paged.  Jack’s room.”  Sherlock tried to imagine what that was like, to have a sudden, unexpected complication.  “He’d been for discharge later today.  Bag packed and everything.”  The story came out then somewhat fragmented, that John had arrived in the first minutes of the event, the room packed with people (many of whom he dismissed when he took over).  He related that the code ran well, ACLS algorithms followed, CPR smooth.  “It was a saddle PE, I knew it.  We never got anything back, no pulse.  He was centrally cyanotic, we couldn’t even oxygenate after he was reintubated.”

“PE," Sherlock echoed.  "Pulmonary embolism?”

“Big blood clot in the lung, probably developed in the week he was in bed despite being on anticoagulants and compression boots.  It broke loose, lodged in the lung.”

“Not treatable?”  Sherlock’s mind was more aligned with helping John through the rationale and argument he was already beating himself up over.

“Not unless the patient is almost immediately in interventional radiology.  There wasn’t time.  Or access.”

He watched John there in the candlelight, the flickering shadows over the flickering emotions.  “So was it preventable?”

John blinked, watching the candlelight reflecting in the dark chestnut curls as Sherlock put words to his pain.  “You do cut to the chase, don’t you.”  John sighed, uncertain and pensive as he rubbed a hand across the tension in his face and then behind his neck.  “I don’t know.  Yes, it should have been.  And we did...”  He let that sentence dangle.  “I did everything known to do to prevent it.  Anticoagulants, early mobility, compression boots while he was in bed, therapy.”

Sherlock reached out a long leg, touching John’s calf under the covers.

“We worked on him for almost an hour, and the team kept looking to me to call it, stop the code.  And I did, of course, maybe we went a few minutes long.”  John stared at the point where their legs were touching, wriggled his toes under Sherlock’s calf.  “I have always hated notifying families like this, over the phone, so I was going to call her, tell her there’d been a change and ask her to come.  But she was standing there, Leslie, outside the doorway, staring at the commotion and people, and when she saw me, she knew.”

“You weren’t expecting to see her there, or you would've been prepared.”

John nodded, struck - again - that Sherlock had great insight into him when he chose.  Of course, it didn’t stop him just last week from doing outrageous insults to his medical journal that he had just bloody received and wanted to read.  “I’ve given bad news hundreds of times, and it’s never easy.  Ever.  But _this_?”  John shook his head, wondering at why it was so hard.  “The patient, well, their suffering is over, but the family?  Left behind to pick up the pieces.”

“And sometimes it hits me in the face, seeing a death tear people apart, seeing the loss, makes me wonder if I could ever really appreciate what I have.  What  _we_ have.”  Conversations at the hospital, and even so long ago in the military hospital, could often begin - or end - with someone stating that they want to go home, give someone a hug, promising to be right back.

He thought of Jack, now growing cold in the mortuary, of Leslie, alone in their home, of the words that would never again be said, of the opportunities now gone forever, and John spoke those words again, softly, this time bringing his lips toward Sherlock’s, pulling Sherlock’s head toward his own, sealing and punctuating and affirming all the commitment John was not only feeling inside, but wearing on his face. 

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock arch into him as he leaned over, with John recumbent, supine on the bed.  Lips, softly exhaled breaths, followed by tongue and teeth gently and haphazardly began at John's shoulder - that scar still intrigued even after so long together - then working down thorax, navel, hip before arriving and settling at John's shaft, where Sherlock's hot, slick mouth found something repetitive to do, and before long, John's hand settled in the dark curls, guiding, easing, faster.  Finally, Sherlock's head stilled and John pumped upward, shorter, quicker, until he found release as Sherlock pulled off to watch, his hand offering firm pressure at the base.

"God, that was... fantastic," John spoke low, pulling Sherlock up toward his shoulder so he could wrap a strong hand around Sherlock's length, which was already throbbing and glistening in the candlelight.  A few strokes, jointly Sherlock thrusting while John's hand pulled and squeezed, was all it took before he orgasmed.  John held steady through it, then meant to ease out of bed.

"Stay."  Sherlock's long arms tightened as John tried to move.

"Candles."  John crossed the room to extinguish them, then tossed a flannel at Sherlock, cleaned up himself, returning quickly to the warm comfort of their bed.  Sherlock waited with open arms.

"God, this is nice," John said as they settled into each others embrace.  And if John held a bit tighter than he usually did, Sherlock noticed but didn't fuss about it.

+++++++

Epilogue:

A card in the mail, delivered to the hospital address, was on John’s desk one morning.  Certainly the handwritten cards were preferable to the ones delivered from the lawyer’s offices, John thought wryly as he opened it.

 _Dear ~~Dr. Watson~~_   _John_ ,

 _Jack’s been gone over two months now, and_ _I’ve been wanting to write.  I think about calling and don’t know where to find you at the hospital and I finally just decided to post this to the hospital and hope it gets to you.  Because the importance of what I have to say keeps me awake, keeps my head engaged, and it just needs to be said._

_I wanted you to know that Jack and I had such a great last few days, after he recovered enough from his pneumonia and was off the vent.  You came by that one night on your way home, a social visit, I don’t even know if you even remember, but you brought smiles and good wishes.  We talked many hours after you left - “date night on the fourth floor”, you said, laughing - and somehow, having that time to talk has made all the difference to me as I just miss him so much I could implode, but he wouldn’t want..._

_I digress._

_Your comment, that stuck with me, was that we had been given a second chance, that not everyone gets that, that our second chance was such a gift.  You said something about living with no regrets._

_We had looked death in the eye, separation, and come out, for a short while, on the other side.  We got the chance to express things we never did before, and now never will again.  I wanted to tell him I loved him one more time, and I got my wish.  I had no idea how that conversation would carry me.  No regrets, you said.  And now that the unthinkable happened, my worst nightmare, I find I can actually live with no regrets.  The worst has already happened, right?  What more can life do to me?_

_But the point of the letter was just to say thank you for those words - it ended up being a defining moment for us.  I’ll miss him, horribly, and there are days I'm so lost, that I don’t think I’ll survive another, when I’m not sure I want to.  And then I hold our son, this precious child of hope and future.  We are survivors, and Jack and I got our second chance, even if it was brief, too brief.   I am SO grateful._

_You, too, John, i hope you live with no regrets - I thought Jack and I had forever ahead of us.  Don't wait.  You just never know._

_Incidentally, until Jack got pneumonia, we were unsure of what to name the baby if it were a boy.  Neither of us wanted another Jack, but couldn’t agree on a variation of the name (’John’, by the way, not a coincidence).  You told us that your grandfather was from Scotland, and, of all things, one of those last discussions we had together there at the hospital was when we settled on the Scottish version of Jack.  Our son is Iain, and I’m enclosing a photo - yes, he’s adorable._

_Thanks just doesn’t convey it well enough, but it will have to do._

_Leslie and Iain_

 John set the note aside, a warm smile toying at his mouth even as he found the sentiment expressed bittersweet. _No regrets._ There was just that one thing...

++    ++    

They had dinner at Angelo's, a nice and relaxing start to a weekend mostly free and clear of obligations.  They'd both finished meals, and John pushed his plate back, and toyed absently with his water glass.  Had John chosen that moment to look up at Sherlock's expression, he would have found a nearly laughing, sarcastic smirk about him.  Instead, by the time John looked up, Sherlock was watching him rather blandly, waiting.

"You ever think about making this official?" he asked.  "You know..."

"5 days."  Sherlock's smile thinned out a bit and his eye sparkled as he leaned back, one long arm casually spread over the chair back.  

"What are you on about?" John queried, puzzled, his mind chasing a few of the more obvious paths that had anything remotely to do with that span of time.

"I wondered how long it would take you to get around to talking about it."

It clicked, then.  " _The card?_ "  Sherlock nodded, causing John to shake his head just a bit soberly that it had already been pieced together in Sherlock's mind.  The water glass held his interest again as he considered Sherlock's uncanny ability to...  "I actually never brought that note home.  It's still on my desk.  In my locked, off-limits office," John teased just a bit, as Sherlock let the grin take over his face, eyes continuing to blaze in amusement, and he clicked his glass to John's.  "Wanker."

++    ++

The following Christmas, John received a photo Christmas card and note from Leslie.  Her message was short, reading only a few words, that her life had taken quite an upswing, Iain was thriving, she’d met someone, had recently married, and they were expecting another child in a few months, and that she would never forget the kindness that he’d shown her in those dark hours.  She wished him a Happy Christmas and hoped he was doing well.

John read the card aloud to Sherlock, flashed the photo that Sherlock pretended to glance at.   _Yeah_ , John thought to himself,  _still a wanker_.  John looked back down at the card in his hand, the platinum band on his ring finger catching his eye.  It was half of the matched pair currently worn on Baker Street.  He touched it idly with his thumb, smiling. 

There was simple engraving on the inside of his ring, exchanged during an intimate civil ceremony:  No regrets.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome ("ARDS") is definitely a serious condition and can affect patients with pneumonia, pancreatitis, sepsis, trauma, or anything that causes acute lung injury. It was first called Da Nang lung and was documented in Viet Nam, when soldiers suffered an injury but died of unexpected pulmonary complications.
> 
> NIPPV stands for non-invasive positive pressure ventilation. It is often referred to BiPAP, which is technically a brand name.
> 
> Pulmonary embolism is one of the biggest threats to hospitalised patients, and a saddle PE refers to a large clot that typically forms in the leg, breaks free, and then lodges in the bifurcation of the pulmonary arterial system. It's difficult to treat once it happens, as John mentioned, but DVT prophylaxis - prevention of PE - is most commonly achieved with anticoagulant therapy, early mobility, and/or compression stockings.
> 
> ++
> 
> Comments, kudos if you liked it - that stuff is always appreciated. Let me know if I missed something.
> 
> And so, about the ending, it would appear that perhaps there is a deleted scene in this story?


End file.
